


a different sort of game

by treztine



Series: set our hearts ablaze [6]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Established Relationship, F/F, Future Fic, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28134762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treztine/pseuds/treztine
Summary: It was a game with no real name that was set to wordless rules. The only tangible parts of it were the questions that would eventually be answered, one way or another. Who would break first, who would falter the most, who would be the victor and see the other on their knees?Alisaie and the Warrior of Light sneak away from a dull party to have some fun.
Relationships: Alisaie Leveilleur/Original Character(s), Alisaie Leveilleur/Warrior of Light
Series: set our hearts ablaze [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1399156
Kudos: 16





	a different sort of game

**Author's Note:**

> sexual content ahead: fingering, light biting, semi-public sex  
> takes place some time in the future.

It was a game with no real name that was set to wordless rules. The only tangible parts of it were the questions that would eventually be answered, one way or another. Who would break first, who would falter the most, who would be the victor and see the other on their knees? Poppy intended to answer each in turn, to savor each calculated move and every strategic act that would entertain her and her opponent well into the night—despite the less than favorable surroundings they both found themselves in.

They had to endure a painfully boring evening somehow, after all, and Poppy sought to orchestrate a little distraction.

Such dull things, Ishgardian parties were. All pomp and finery and playing pretend. Poppy’s attendance was assured only at the behest of dear old Edmont, who spoke so fondly of her in his invitation and mentioned that he missed her terribly. And, upon her arrival, the only reason she behaved herself well enough to not embarrass her fellow Scions was a polite but pointed reminder from Alphinaud. _We must needs remind Ishgard of our presence and ensure that we are respected_ —or some such nonsense that Poppy had tuned out after the first few words and already forgotten.

Thus Fortemps manor was the battleground for the bout, the stage on which Poppy would execute her grand show. The fine silk she wrapped herself in was part of the performance, of course. She played the role of the Warrior cloaked in shadow to perfection, cast as an inky contradiction to her title that was made to be enticing, and enticing she was. Not only to her beloved opponent, as it turned out.

Dalmascan silk was not a common sight in Ishgard, as Poppy quickly discovered. What she thought was a rather unassuming ensemble (as unassuming as scant panels of nearly sheer fabric could be, anyroad) had caused quite a stir. Nobility buzzed around her at the center of the manor’s grand ballroom, pulling her from conversation to conversation with the usual curt politeness expected of Ishgardians; just enough to mask their eagerness at being in the presence of the famed and fashionable Warrior of Light.

She was showered in compliments from lords and ladies alike who commented on the fineness of the textile, on its regal shine, on its luxurious black coloring, and the way it draped over her shoulders in such beautiful waves. Poppy listened to them with an air of modesty that was as feigned as their aloofness, but none seemed to mind. All were delighted that the Warrior played along, never one to shy away from attention. If only because she played a very different sort of game with a certain wallflower also in attendance of the party.

At one point, Poppy humored a request to touch the garment that made her so popular, spoken from behind the fan of a blushing noblewoman. The Warrior encouraged her, laughed at the exclamation of _oh, how soft!_ and then looked to catch the stare she already knew was on her.

She flashed a smile—discreet but pointed—to show her fellow Scion that she'd been caught. Alisaie looked at her for but a breath longer, just long enough to read the meaning behind the quirk of Poppy's lips, and allow her nose to wrinkle before she quickly looked away. The game was set and the challenge accepted. Poppy's own eyes lingered, however, content to bask in her first brief moment of victory.

The long braid draped over Alisaie’s shoulder shifted as she turned her attention back to the conversation she’d drifted from. It was shockingly white against the bright crimson shirt tucked into black breeches, highlighting the elegant curve of her neck and the sharp lines of her aristocratic profile. Among the swaths of nobility she was surrounded by, she would be considered under-dressed, perhaps. But to Poppy, she shone brighter than everyone else in the room, which only made the Warrior want her more.

Knowing that Alisaie was so close and yet maddeningly out of her grasp pushed Poppy to the limits of her patience, just as she knew that toying with Alisaie pushed her just as far. There was danger in playing such silly little games, yet there was also a secret thrill of excitement that fueled her already showy nature, that urged her to secure the attention she so desperately craved.

With pockets of laughter that bubbled up like the champagne in everyone's glasses, the party unfolded into the night. A noble lady soon dropped her handkerchief at Poppy's feet. She giggled into her palm, blaming the alcohol for her clumsiness. Poppy knelt to retrieve it at once, of course, never one to turn down a lady in need. She took ample time to bend over and let the plunging neckline of her top droop a bit too far, exposing a bit too much. Scant and scandalous, but only meant for a certain pair of eyes she knew very well were looking.

Like clockwork, she caught Alisaie's stare again through the crowd, like a sharp flash of steel across a battlefield. It lingered much longer than before, and so Poppy made a grand show of standing upright, the motion drawn out and dramatic and far too slow. Another triumphant smile pulled the corner of her mouth into a smirk and made the ice blue of the gaze fixed on her narrow a hair.

Oh, how Alisaie _hated_ to be teased. Poppy would surely pay for her transgressions, and pay dearly at that. She certainly hoped so, anyroad, she thought as she turned sharply on her heel to escape the burning gaze fixed on her. She returned the handkerchief to the still-giggling lady it belonged to, reveling in all her triumph.

And so the two of them danced long into the night, all without setting foot within a fulm of each other. It was a battle of wills and strength that needn't rely on the sharpness of steel. Eventually, however, a decisive move was made. Somewhere amidst dull gossip of how a certain Lady such-and-such wore the wrong kind of hat in a most garish color to the latest luncheon, an intruder stepped in to deliver a direct attack.

“Warrior of Light.”

Each letter of Poppy’s title was drawn out just so, laced with hidden meanings discernible only to her. The ladies who she spoke with looked rather unimpressed by the interruption, but the Warrior silently marveled over the boldness it took to approach her in the open.

“May I steal a moment of your time?”

The gentle touch on her bare elbow turned to heat that spread beneath Poppy’s skin, delicate as the silk she wore. She had to force down the shudder she felt blossom at the edges of her nerves.

“Lady Leveilleur,” she addressed the other woman without yet looking up at her. She spoke in the same careful way, turning the formality over on her tongue like a drop of sweet honey that made her lips pucker into a smile. “You needn't steal a thing. I always have time for you,” she added, pressing her luck with boldness of her own as she let her hand wander to brush her fingertips against Alisaie's hand.

When Poppy finally chanced a look, Alisaie's gaze smoldered down at her from beneath snowy lashes, heavy and so very annoyed. She then gave Poppy's elbow a tug and led her away without another word, leaving the other nobles behind to quietly huff over the audacity of the rude Scion. Poppy forgot about them in less than a breath.

They stopped at the edge of the party, on the precipice of the long corridors and halls that pulled thin shadows into the bright warmth of the ballroom. When Alisaie turned to face Poppy, she stood an ilm closer than what politeness called for, close enough that Poppy could see the cracks on her facade form.

“Your necklace,” Alisaie said. “The clasp is showing.”

She spoke in a hushed tone that sounded rather exaggerated, as if it were the most embarrassing thing in the world to be caught with finery presented so imperfectly. Eager to see what she played at, Poppy let out a scandalized gasp.

“Well, we can't have that,” Poppy said with a brief shake of her head. She leaned another ilm closer to Alisaie, like she meant to share a secret, and whispered her reply, “Be a dear and fix it for me?”

It was less a request and more of a challenge, but Alisaie reached for the thin chain of gold draped around Poppy’s throat with little hesitation regardless. Her head tilted down, and the careful movement made the single silver earring that hung heavy from her ear flash from the glare of the chandelier. Her lips curled like petals from some sort of hidden amusement, rosy pink and shimmering from that same light. Poppy swallowed thickly, taken by her beauty. Truly, it was a crime that all attention wasn't on _her_ instead.

Alisaie tugged at the necklace with agonizing slowness. The cold metal of the clasp crept along Poppy's neck ilm by ilm until it returned to its proper place, settled against her nape, which was warmed with the exhilaration of a battle waged in such close quarters. Alisaie paused, gazing down at Poppy with the same smouldering intensity as before. In that moment, the pleasant mask of forced propriety that political outings required slipped.

“You,” Alisaie murmured, “are incredibly distracting.”

Her eyes flicked over Poppy, hungry and unrestrained, and each word was a sharp little dagger that dug deep into Poppy's skin and made her flush with warmth.

“Am I?” she asked, innocent as can be, and flashed a demure smile up at the tall woman who loomed over her. Her tail flicked behind her in the brief silence that followed, rhythmic and blithe, bristled lightly from excitement.

“Still playing coy?” Alisaie asked in return, just as quiet as before. A pout made her lips press together in a petulant sort of way, despite her obvious attempt to quell it beneath a more formal frown. “Frankly,” she added, voice low and rough and almost a growl, “I'm tired of these games.”

Her lingering fingertips fluttered over Poppy's collarbones and darted downward along the deep cut hem of her top. She paused to give the fabric a gentle tug inward, to adjust and preen. Or rather, to give her an excuse to dip her thumbs beneath the silk and graze the sensitive skin beneath Poppy’s breasts, as if she meant to prove a point.

Poppy managed to stifle a gasp, but just barely. Alisaie looked a bit too satisfied with herself at the reaction. She leaned over until her lips brushed against the fur of Poppy's ear and again, she spoke in a whisper:

“The south hall. Five minutes.”

Just like that, Alisaie stepped back to reestablish the proper distance between them. She dipped into a brief bow before she spun around and then disappeared back into the crowd with all the ease of a wisp of smoke, leaving Poppy alone in her stunned silence.

Alisaie’s very finite well of patience had obviously run dry. She’d cracked first, shown her impatience and her hand—and yet despite all that, she was still the victor of the game. Poppy should've known better than to crash headfirst into a battle she had no true intention of winning and expect to conquer an opponent who knew her every weakness.

The waning warmth of Alisaie’s touch crawled along Poppy’s skin and was pulled inwards, flickering within her like a candle fed by curiosity and anticipation alike. The terms of her surrender made five minutes creep by like a full bell.

Poppy somehow managed to slip away unnoticed when the time came, even with an entourage on her tail. The shadows of the familiar manor swallowed her up and hid her from prying eyes, pulling her down its gilded corridors, far from the battleground the ballroom had been—until she stopped and realized she didn't know _where_ in the hall she was meant to go.

Her ears flicked back just as a door creaked open behind her. As it turned out, she'd stopped at just the right place.

Poppy was caught off guard by the arm that wrapped around her waist and yanked her backwards. The door was closed right in her face with near-silent precision and locked just as quietly. A hand snaked around her neck and pressed against her mouth before she could cry out, while the other held her in place, flush against cold wood.

It took every onze of self control Poppy had to resist the urge to reach for one of the many small knives hidden on her person. But she knew, even before her eyes adjusted to the lightless space, that her assailant could be trusted.

“You're a bit late,” a welcome but tart voice chided into her ear.

Poppy relaxed and let out a muffled snort before she gave the finger over her lips a gentle nip. “A broom closet,” she breathed out when Alisaie’s hand fell away. “How _romantic_.”

Poppy glanced to the side, seeing a shelf stocked with buckets and rags and several brooms that leaned against it. There were but a few dusty fulms of clearance illuminated only by a sliver of light from the hall that slipped beneath the door.

Behind her, Alisaie let out a sharp chuckle. “There are far worse places for a tryst,” she said. “I could have taken you in the middle of the ballroom like I wanted to, for one.”

The warm breath of the whisper that floated past her ear raised every hair on Poppy's neck. She grinned into the dark, her hands sliding up the smooth wood of the door in anticipation. Her grand show had worked, at least. She hoped the punishment for her defeat would be as swift and just as the victor’s tone silently promised.

“You should've. Think of the scandal you could've caused.”

She earned herself another laugh, which was much closer than before. Alisaie leaned forward, practically pressing Poppy against the door from behind while her lips brushed against her neck.

“You're _horrible_ ,” Alisaie murmured. The way she said it made Poppy think she was about to learn just how horrible she was.

Alisaie's knee slid against Poppy's legs and then shifted up until it settled between her thighs. A strangled sound caught in Poppy's throat at the sudden pressure, but she swallowed it down. She wanted nothing more than to face Alisaie, to look at her and to kiss her senseless, but her beloved clearly had other things in store for her.

Poppy squirmed but couldn’t budge, which was quite the inconvenience. She pouted over her shoulder to make her displeasure clear and as she thrashed her tail against Alisaie's leg in retaliation, she was met with the same smirk as always—grating and enticing as ever, reflecting unspoken promises. Poppy was stunned and delighted both when Alisaie grabbed the base of her tail and gave it a sharp yank. She let out a groan and let her hips be jerked back to grind against the knee pressed to her core.

Never one to waste precious time, Alisaie’s hands slid up to Poppy's neck and beneath the fabric draped over her arms, pushing it off her shoulders until it pooled at her elbows in the luxurious waves that all of the nobles were so fond of. And just like that, she was exposed, cold suddenly from Ishgard’s persistent chill. Not that the thin silk did much to shield her from it in the first place—the true reason it was so uncommon in Coerthan climes.

The hearths of the hall could hardly chase away the cold that hid in the tiny closet along with them and their secrets, but Alisaie's hands were the next best thing. They were surprisingly warm as they crept up Poppy's bare stomach and palmed her breasts. Her thumbs swept over hardened pink buds, pinched them to softness before they went stiff again beneath her touch.

Alisaie’s head dipped downward until her lips brushed against Poppy’s back. “You look beautiful tonight,” she murmured, breathing more warmth across her skin.

“I must be,” Poppy agreed in earnest, a purr rolling beneath the words, “with how often I caught you leering at me.”

When Poppy heard and then felt an affronted huff hit the back of her neck, she grinned at the door. She couldn’t be smug for long, however, because a sudden squeeze and the persistent pressure of the knee between her legs made her swallow her triumph.

Alisaie's hands moved to her belt. The buckle was undone, as were the buttons of her slacks that were then pushed down just enough to give Alisaie room to slip beneath. Poppy gasped when fingers ghosted over the front of her already damp smalls.

“Eager, are we?” Alisaie asked. She sounded rather pleased with herself as she traced the swirling patterns of the delicate lace. “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised,” she added, “given how you've been vying for my attention all evening.”

The way she spoke—smug enough to make the hairs on Poppy's nape stand straight beneath the barrage—was clearly meant to remind the Warrior that she’d lost the very war she waged. And yet her demise only made the heat coiled within Poppy sink downward, trapped beneath the fingertips that teased her.

Poppy whined, low and needy from between her teeth. It was her turn to be tired of games, but Alisaie was not yet done with assuring her victory. They both knew that they couldn't be absent from the party for very long lest their fellow Scions or their gracious hosts come looking for them, but at that moment, Alisaie seemed to not care.

“What do you want me to do, now that you have me here?”

Alisaie froze behind her, not moving aside from the rise and fall of her chest and the faint heartbeat Poppy felt thrum against her bare shoulders. Her skin prickled beneath it, beneath the weight of knowing she would have to beg to get what she wanted. She squirmed in Alisaie's grasp, impatient and wanting and yet still clinging to her pride. However, Alisaie didn't budge, and Poppy resigned herself to her fate with a sigh.

“ _Fuck me_.”

Poppy was never one to ask nicely for the things she wanted, and she wasn't about to start then—lest of all with the hiss that slipped past her lips and painted the profanity onto the wood of the door with the warmth of her breath. Alisaie seemed to not mind, especially with the way she laughed in reply—more of a snort, a beautiful and graceless sound. And it always worked out in the end, because Alisaie was never gentle in the way she indulged Poppy's whims, which was exactly what the wanton Warrior adored about her.

Alisaie yanked down Poppy's smallclothes and her trousers in one swift motion, where they were left to crumple around her knees. Her hands grabbed Poppy's waist, thumbs digging into the delicate skin of her hip bones as she leaned forward to be nearly flush against her.

“As you wish,” Alisaie said, almost curt, shifting to brace her arm above Poppy’s head and pinning her in place against the door. Poppy went limp and breathless as Alisaie’s other hand slid between her thighs from behind and climbed upward. “Anything for you,” she continued, and had the gall to growl the title that followed, “Saviour of Ishgard.”

Fingers met wetness and nerve, sliding back and forth slowly to test the experimental angle. They pressed against Poppy, more confident with each drag, making contact and then receding in a rhythm that marched steadily towards her victory. Poppy was more than pleased to fold beneath the barrage and to be claimed, for her defeat would only bring her pleasure.

The frigid little closet fell far warmer than before. Heat rose through Poppy, curling around her lungs, making her heart stutter, painting a faint blush across her cheeks. Alisaie's breaths grazed the back of her neck in time with the movements of her fingers, deft and slick, always knowing just where to touch to make Poppy unravel beneath her. A finger slid in and Poppy braced her forehead against the door. Her claws dug into the wood—to anchor herself or to stop herself from crying out, though she wasn't very successful in either venture. She whined again, overwhelmed from the feeling of Alisaie's hand dancing between her legs, her finger pushing in and out, deeper with each thrust.

Poppy was never known to be a quiet lover, and being in the broom closet of an influential Ishgardian family’s manor did little to teach her shame. But she was where she hoped she would end up being when she cooked up her little plan. Being beneath Alisaie's attentive grasp was certainly more fun than the dull party, and she sang her praises as she pushed herself back against Alisaie’s hand.

Above her, Alisaie let out a hum of approval. Poppy could only imagine her pleased expression, could almost feel it in the kisses and bites that lavished her neck, but allowed Alisaie her smugness. She’d earned the right, after all, and Poppy wasn't about to start complaining when it felt so damn good. She grew bolder in turn, her moans louder, and Alisaie’s pace followed to chase her closer to her demise.

It was only when Alisaie's hand suddenly fell from the door and covered her mouth that Poppy was stifled. She made a sound of protest and surprise, but Alisaie’s grip only grew tighter.

“Hush,” she whispered into her hair.

Poppy heard the distant echoing sound of footsteps and went quiet. The previously silent wing of the manor was soon alight with a faint chatter of voices that came steadily closer towards the closet—guests leaving or staff moving about to clean up after them.

“You wouldn't want to get caught, would you?” Alisaie asked, a singsong whisper in her ear.

She didn't bother to heed her own caution, however, no matter how serious her tone. The added fact that she hadn't slowed her hand in the least made Poppy feel like she wouldn't mind a scandal after all. When a second finger slipped inside her to join the first, Poppy knew very well that a game was still afoot.

Alisaie’s fingers curled inward, deeper, faster and frantic as Poppy trembled beneath her merciless pace. The march drew onward, and Poppy’s hips jerked backward to follow it, her shallow breaths caught by Alisaie's palm. If her aim was to get Poppy to cry out and reveal their hiding spot to the world, she would surely be successful at that rate.

Someone paced the hall, stopping far too close to the closet for comfort. A conversation played out, distant buzzing to Poppy's ears, more of an annoyance that anything else. Her fang grazed Alisaie's thumb and she whined despite herself—a sound barely audible, but there. She took Alisaie's fingers into her mouth to further silence herself and her tongue rolled across her skin, sucking in earnest, nibbling each digit that crept too close to her teeth.

She was close, perilously so, with quivering thighs and gooseflesh and nerves plucked raw. Just another moment, just one more thrust and she would come undone and unravel, defeated by Alisaie's expert hands. Then she picked out a string of words from beyond the door that made her blood go cold:

“—I'm just going to get a broom!”

Who Poppy assumed was a maid approached in a quick clack of heels. Alisaie went still behind her at the sound, both of them hushed and trembling like little mice caught in a trap. The maid grasped the knob and gave it a jiggle, then another that made the door shake and squeak. Luckily, it didn't budge. Poppy sent a silent thanks back to Alisaie, who had the good sense to lock it. There was a rustle of fabric, and a muffled sigh could be heard from behind the thick wood.

“That pesky Lisette must have taken the key,” the maid muttered to herself, sounding annoyed. “Such a forgetful girl.”

With that, the maid stomped off, likely to unleash her ire on the poor, undeserving Lisette she’d mentioned. Poppy exhaled around the fingers still in her mouth, the fear within her wilted away. Her relief didn't last for long. It was soon replaced by a keen reminder from Alisaie that her body still wanted and ached.

“That was a bit close,” a delighted whisper was paired with a thrust of fingers, “don't you think?”

Poppy could hardly think to answer or even be able to reply, given how her mouth was occupied. Instead, she bit Alisaie's fingers and pushed herself back against the ones that curled within her, urging her to finish, begging for release. Alisaie obliged, pressing each point she knew would make Poppy break.

It didn’t take much more than that. Poppy could endure for no longer and came undone, gasping into Alisaie's hand, softly whining until she was spent and still, limp against the door. Everything was quiet for a moment, nothing but white-hot heat and the pleasant thrum of her hard-earned defeat. Then Alisaie let her go and Poppy almost crumpled to the floor in a woozy heap.

Hands retreated all too soon and Poppy spun around to chase them, to chase the warmth that escaped her in the absence of the touch. She reached out and was glad that Alisaie pulled her into an embrace, smirking as she ducked her head to stake her last claim.

Alisaie bit her on the juncture of her shoulder and her neck, hard enough to mark and be visible should fabric shift too far and prying eyes wander. Poppy would have to be mindful of how she moved, lest the trace of the sordid kiss be revealed to all of Ishgard. It was a strategic place chosen with care; bold and purposeful and a brilliant move on Alisaie's part. Poppy could do little but toss her head back and succumb beneath her teeth.

Alisaie pulled away as fast as she pulled Poppy close. Her hand was on the doorknob in less than a breath and before Poppy could protest, she tossed a pointed smile over her shoulder.

“You had better not dally for long,” Alisaie warned. “That maid will return ere long.”

“What about you?” Poppy asked, breathless as she leaned against the opposite wall.

Alisaie thought for a moment and smiled again. It was the same smile she wore in the ballroom, the mask of forced propriety that made her eyes crinkle and lips strain.

“You’ll have ample time to pay me back,” Alisaie replied with a playful huff of a breath, as if it were so obvious. She opened the door a crack and the dim light of the once again quiet hall illuminated the mischief that lurked in her gaze. “The night is still young, after all.”

Then Alisaie was gone and Poppy was left disheveled and half undressed in the dusty little broom closet. She put herself back together again, buckling her trousers and shrugging the silk of her top back into place, chuckling quietly all the while at how thoroughly she'd been bested at her own game.

But, just as Alisaie had said, the night was still young and Poppy could only think and strategize on how she might exact her revenge. There were ample places to slip off to and explore within the manor. Places hidden from view, perhaps more exciting and more comfortable than a cramped closet.

Poppy made her escape into the thankfully empty hall and sulked her way back to the ballroom to rejoin the party and the far less enjoyable game of politics that was always afoot. Though, it wouldn’t be for long. She would soon start a new game—one which she intended to win to even the score. 

**Author's Note:**

> shout out to the dalmascan draped top, which is what originally inspired this. 👌


End file.
